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Abandoned by a rogue

Betrothed to an earl she had never met, Charlotte Haversham arrived at Balfurin, hoping to find love at the legendary Scottish castle. Instead she found decaying towers and no husband among the ruins. So Charlotte worked a miracle, transforming the rotting fortress into a prestigious girls' school. And now, five years later, her life is filled with purpose-until . . .

Seduced by a stranger

A man storms Charlotte's castle-and he is not the reprehensible Earl of Marne, the one who stole her dowry and dignity, but rather the absent lord's handsome, worldly cousin Dixon MacKinnon. Mesmerized by the fiery Charlotte, Dixon is reluctant to correct her mistake. And though she's determined not to play the fool again, Charlotte finds herself strangely thrilled by the scoundrel's amorous attentions. But a dangerous intrigue has drawn Dixon to Balfurin. And if his ruse is prematurely revealed, a passionate, blossoming love affair could crumble into ruin.

October 1838...

As homecomings went, this one would rank among the strangest.

Dixon Robert MacKinnon felt as if ghosts welcomed him, trailing their cold and lifeless fingers over his skin, greeting him with soft, almost soundless moans as if to warn him away from his destination. Yet the whole of Scotland was a place of ghosts, each hill and glen carrying memories of bittersweet victory or poignant loss. He'd forgotten how damp the air felt, as if the earth had wept and was now resting between tears.

How strange that he'd come halfway around the world for this moment and now he dreaded arriving at Balfurin.

He sat back among the cushions and surveyed his companion. Matthew was wedged into the corner of the carriage, arms crossed over his embroidered silk jacket, his gaze fixed at the tops of his pointed shoes. He'd been silent ever since yesterday when Dixon had announced it would be weeks before they left for Penang. In fact, it was very likely they would remain the winter in Scotland.

Dixon tapped on the ceiling, a signal for the coachman to slow. Another tap, and he felt the horses being walked to the side of the road.

"Come and have a look at Balfurin, Matthew," he said.

"I will remain here, if you do not mind, master," Matthew said, refusing to look in his direction. "The storm will be upon us shortly."

"A good Scottish storm takes the fire out of the blood."

"I have no more fire in my blood, as you say, master. I have spent too much time being cold and wet for any fire to survive."

Dixon stifled his smile, exited the carriage and closed the door, not remarking to Matthew that a carriage would be no protection in a Scottish thunderstorm. He might as well stand in the lee of the wind and delight in its fury with no shelter at all.

Dixon walked some distance from the carriage, feeling as if the years fell away with each step.

His parents had died in a boating accident on the River Tam, and he'd been brought to Balfurin for his uncle to raise. His mother's home had soon become his. How many times had he raced around the ruined tower? Or run up the steps to the battlements themselves? He'd played Robert the Bruce or Hannibal, Caesar, or a host of other warriors, and all during those pretend battles, he'd been the Earl of Marne, not George. Even as a child, he'd been envious of George's position in the world. Not just that his cousin had inherited the title, but that he would forever be known as the Laird of Balfurin.

The red streaks of sunset were a perfect backdrop to his first view of Balfurin. In the distance, the sky was already black, but not from nightfall as much as an approaching storm. An omen, perhaps, that Balfurin didn't welcome him back home with much enthusiasm.

He should have heeded the warning.

Balfurin was nothing like it had been. Dixon stared down at the glen, barely recognizing the castle.

The ruined tower wasn't there. Somehow, it had simply disappeared from the landscape. Had it finally crumbled and been carted away in a hundred barrows? Or better yet, had it been used to build the new addition to the east? A three-story building, rectangular and plain, seemed to have no relationship at all to the existing castle except for the fact it shared the same courtyard.

The curtain wall had been shored up, and the gate holding the portcullis had been repaired. The battlements looked as if their crenellated tops had been sharpened and there was a flag flying there, one that he couldn't make out from this distance.

The courtyard was filled with a hundred lit torches along the curtain wall. Candles outlined the path from the portcullis to the broad stone steps. Hundreds of flickering flames sat in every window of Balfurin...

Karen Ranney began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and, most of all, a writer. The violin discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained an overwhelming love of hers.

She loves to hear from her readers-please write to her at karen@karenranney.com or visit her website at www.karenranney.com.

Karen Ranney lives in Texas.